


Each Slow Dusk

by jvo_taiski



Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Death, Disillusionment, Family Relationships - Freeform, Growing Up, Identity, Loss, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Content, Substance Abuse, Suicide, Use of Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War, it’s not completely miserable, mental health, other warnings given in chapters as appropriate, sorry - Freeform, yeah it’s a cheerful fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29655174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Four years, and returning to Tulsa feels like someone's taken him out of his own universe and dumped him someplace where Coca-Cola comes in green packaging and his mom's still sober enough to talk. It's jarring. And whether he likes it or not, time has passed and the Tulsa preserved in his memories no longer exists.AKA Dallas comes back four years later and nothing's the same anymore
Relationships: Ponyboy Curtis/Curly Shepard, Ponyboy Curtis/Dallas Winston, Tim Shepard/Dallas Winston
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Passing Bells

**Author's Note:**

> lmao guess who's signing up for COMMITMENT o_o  
> don't expect regular updates anyways. 
> 
> \- very loosely based on the premise from pyrchance's [Streetlights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521065/chapters/33549456) (go read btw), in the sense that Dallas runs rather than kills himself, and shows up four years later, but everything else diverges from there. 
> 
> \- the rating (mature) might move up to explicit if I decide that some scenes are too much, so watch out for that, but a warning will be given before the chapter as appropriate

The world is still sliding in and out of focus when Dally skids to a halt in front of the store. He’s gonna go in. He’s gonna go in—and then what? Stick up a store and try not to think about starched white sheets and grey skin, blood and burns and fire on a kid’s back?

His arm still hurts. Good. He deserves the ache, the reminder that it still should’ve been him and not the best kid he ever knew, but it’s too late to think about it. Punches from a Soc, he’s covered in bruises, and his ribs are busted (maybe cracked again; they’re not even healed from last time. Every breath sends fire shooting up his chest. He should be burning, just like Johnny—) and he thinks there’s blood dribbling down his face just like Ponyboy’s and _oh god, he just left him standing there,_ white walls, pale and trembling, tear-streaked and bloody—

He was white-faced and frail when he stumbled out, looking up at him with helpless eyes that reminded him so much of someone else, that somebody else lying face-down and unmoving. He tried, honest to god, he tried—but it’s not enough. The one time he tries, and what he touches crumbled anyway. His ribs and face and arm hurt and that’s okay because some of it he deserves, some of it’s a reminder that he _tried,_ maybe, just for a little bit of retribution. Hollow victory; hollow justice. _Useless. Fighting’s no good._

Maybe Johnny was right but it’s the only thing Dally’s ever known.

The night is dark but his own drawn-out reflection reminds him of Ponyboy swaying on his feet and a final whispered plea to _stay gold_ so for the first time in his life, he runs instead.

***

Dally’s hesitant to disturb it. Which is stupid. But there’s something about coming back to a place thought long-lost that leaves it immortalised in his mind, and Tulsa is no exception.

All the roads leading in are the same—he even runs over the same pothole that nearly blows out his tyre again. It still smells dry like dust and gasoline, smoke and tar. Jay’s is still standing but there are hippies infesting the Ribbon, and there’s a construction site where the Dingo used to be.

It’s weird, the give-and-take, the little differences that throw him off kilter and remind him that time passes with or without him. It’s small shifts, nothing major—just enough to make him feel like he’s been dumped into a different universe, where Coca-Cola comes in green packaging and his mom's still sober enough to talk—it disorientates him at first, but he gets caught up nit-picking every little detail and that’s okay, it’s grounding. Four years might as well be a different world and Dally’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting.

He scans the corner of the lot out of habit. Part of him still half-expects to see a lone figure huddled down the end, just waiting to be scolded. There’s not, of course, but the charred patch on the ground, blackened from years of late-night campfires, is still there. So is the old wreck of a car in the corner, the battered thing with leathered sun-worn seats and no wheels, rusted and engine gone. There’s a new garish pink peace sign graffitied on the hood.

Dally considers dropping by the DX first but he’s not ready for that, not just yet. He’s reluctant to admit that there’s a sheen of sweat coating his palms that has nothing to do with the sluggish warmth of spring.

Once, he thinks he sees a familiar mop of greased-back red hair but he has to remind himself that the kid will have grown by now—besides, Ponyboy’s hair was a lot tuffer than that, and more of a rusty colour. Had a better build too. How tall is he now? The corners of Dally’s mouth quirk upwards when he tries imagining a grown-up Ponyboy.

It’s been a long, long time and with a small start, it occurs to him that Ponyboy might have graduated already as he pulls up outside Will Rogers. He’s parked on this exact road too many times to count, back in the days when he used to attend himself, with Steve and Soda, and the days after that when he’d be waiting to pick someone up. Normally it was Johnny, shy and scuffling his feet and mumbling his bashful thanks no matter how many times Dally told him not to mention it. Two-Bit and Steve sometimes, when Two-Bit’s car would inevitably break down again—they’d lope out the school, given a wide berth by the other kids—Two-Bit was always a big kid and he looked tough, with his sideburns and leather jacket. And Ponyboy sometimes, almost tumbling down the steps at the front, head in the clouds as always, never using it despite his big brother’s complaints. He’d always look surprised to see Dally there, waiting for him in Buck’s T-Bird—wary, almost.

The building, at least, has not changed. It’s still huge, still imposing, still made of sturdy beige brick, worn down by the weather, timeless. He briefly wonders if anyone he knows will come out, before he remembers _shit,_ it’s been so long—Ponyboy might not even be in school anymore. He’s 18, now. It’s a weird thought, that he would be anywhere else other than inside these white walls, coming home with his head in his clouds and his nose in schoolwork.

In the end, he only recognises Ponyboy because of the jacket.

_His_ jacket, actually. It used to be a hitchhiker’s but he’d lost it in a bet and Dally wore it until the night Pony and Johnny ran away. It’s worn down but the blackened burn mark streaked across the back is unmistakeable.

And if not for the jacket, Dally probably would have let him walk right on by—because holy fuck, he knows damn well it’s been four years, but he’s underestimated exactly how much four years can change a kid. As it is, Dally doesn’t connect the dots right away. The jacket jars his memory first, then he notices hair with a familiar colour but with less grease than he remembers.

It takes recognising the way he carries himself for him to finally process that Ponyboy Michael Curtis, in the flesh, is walking across the carpark, alone as usual—yes, he’s got his head down and his shoulders hunched but he’s still spaced out as anything as he kicks a stone over the asphalt. 

He doesn’t notice Dallas. He walks straight by and Dally’s too stunned to holler at him.

In the end, he starts up the car and starts slowly tailing him. Ponyboy’s always liked walking. That hasn’t changed at least, even if the rest of him is so wildly different that Dally doesn’t really know what to do. Yeah, he’s grown a fucking foot, and yeah, his resemblance to Soda is uncanny (even if Soda never walked with a slouch) now that he’s lost all the baby-softness that used to linger around his features, and yeah, he’s always looked wise beyond his years but as everyone does at some point, he’s lost that childish aura about him.

Dally can’t quite put a finger on it. Sure, he’s still staring into space but there are things missing, like the kid’s tendency to bounce a rubber ball or walk in a zigzag down the street, maybe touching bricks or stopping to look at an interesting bug on the way, in exactly the way that Darry used to hate. He still walks slowly, but with the purpose of an adult, and that makes all the difference.

And still, he doesn’t fucking notice Dally. Which is all kinds of dumb because he’s been driving right next to the kid, at exactly the same pace, for five blocks now.

In the end, he revs up the car excessively loudly when the kid cuts across the lot and swerves straight in front of him.

Ponyboy startles violently, green eyes wide and a hand flying to his back pocket when Dally brings the car to a screeching halt an inch in front of his toes. Dally steps out, eying the hand he can’t see out of habit. Maybe Ponyboy’s finally wised up and started carrying a blade.

Dally plasters a smirk to his face and leans against the car, taking a moment to drag his eyes up and down the man in front of him.

They regard each other in silence for a moment, just long enough for Dally to doubt whether Ponyboy even fucking recognises him. His leg bounces a couple times before he forces it under control.

And then Ponyboy makes a funny choking noise at the back of his throat and a crumpled expression replaces the blank shock on his face and before he knows it, _oh god,_ the kid’s surged forwards and Dally tenses up, but—

A hug. Dally’s being crushed into a hug and he doesn’t know what the hell to do about it. He’s not got a fucking clue when he was hugged last, not including sex. And now there’s another person clinging to his shoulders like his life depends on it and Dally’s not sure he’s allowed to shove him off.

Maybe he should hug back—maybe he owes it to him, after disappearing for the better part of four fucking years. Whatever. The movement is weird and Dally gulps—he’s acutely aware of how Ponyboy’s half a fucking inch taller than him now, but he still smells like cigarettes.

“When did you start smoking Kool’s?” he blurts out. The undertones of menthol are unmistakeable, but unfamiliar.

Of all the things to say, and for some reason that matters.

Pony only makes that funny choking noise into his shoulder again.

“Hey, kid. Get off me, would ya? You’re actin’ like you’ve seen a ghost. Glory, you’d think I was dead or something.”

No response.

“And… is that hash? You kinda smell like hash. Does everyone around this place still get it from ol’ Shepard?”

“He’s been in the cooler three years now,” Ponyboy replies, voice kind of thick, and with a funny start, Dally realises that Ponyboy’s honest to god crying. “And we thought you were fucking dead.”

“Well I’m sorry ‘bout that an’ all but that ain’t really my problem—”

“You’re an asshole. An honest-to-god asshole and I hate you.”

“Yeah? Well get off me then, kid, you’re smotherin’ me.”

There’s no real bite in it and Dally finds the corners of his lips lifting against his will when Ponyboy finally pulls away to glare at him with watery eyes and okay, yeah, maybe he’s missed these guys more then he’d like to admit.

“What’s good, kid? How comes you’re still in school? Thought you’d be off in college by now, doing something with that big brain of yours.”

He ruffles Ponyboy’s hair, which is strange, seeing as he has to fucking reach up to do it, but he still scowls and bats Dally’s hand away with the same petulant look he remembers.

“Well, after Johnny died and you fuckin’ disappeared, and after nearly getting thrown in a boy’s home, you can’t blame me for flunkin’ 10th grade. Where the hell have you been?”

Dallas winces a little and scratches behind his ear. “Around. Why’d you think I was dead anyway?”

“I dunno. Because it’s been four years? Because there was a fuckin’ police shooting reported the next town over and they never identified the body?”

“Man, I never knew about that one. I was prob’ly out of state by then.”

“Will you stop deflecting?” snaps Ponyboy, folding his arms. “Christ almighty. You disappear for god knows how long then show up after _four years_ like nothing’s happened?”

“Kid, I’m sorry, but the hell d’you want me t’say?”

“I dunno!” he raises his hands, voice trembling. “Something? Anything? Maybe _why,_ goddammit? Oh, hang it all, I dunno what I’m expecting.”

Lord, but he sounds like Darry. He starts off walking again, and Dally hesitates, before hoping in the car and following. He’ll strip it down tomorrow, try and sell the pieces and maybe Steve’ll help him. He’s always been better with cars. He’s not fixing on keeping it, not when he’s hotwired it from the next town over and gas is expensive as hell anyway.

The Curtis house looks almost the same as it did before he left. Less mess, maybe. And it’s silent, completely silent.

Ponyboy tosses his keys on the table with a loud clatter and Dally blinks, realising that they actually lock the doors now. He’s silent when he rummages through the fridge and holds up the cheese, wordlessly offering him a sandwich. Dally nods and throws himself down on the counter. He ignores the furtive wide-eyed glances that Ponyboy keeps throwing him, like he’ll disappear again if he lets him out of sight.

And it’s so quiet it’s getting disconcerting. There used to be seven boys running around the place like they owned it—it was never silent, whether it was the TV, the radio or general shouting and banging. What the hell, he can even hear the fucking clock ticking on the wall and every time Ponyboy knocks the butter knife on the edge of the tub, the hollow thud echoes around the kitchen.

He’s about to ask where the hell everyone else is, when it occurs to him that they might not even be a gang anymore. After he left, there would only have been five of them—and shit, most of them are old enough to be _married,_ for Christ’s sake. He frowns at the thought. He’s smacked by a wave of alienation and lowers his sandwich to frown again.

“You don’t like it?” asks Ponyboy, raising an eyebrow.

“What, the sandwich?”

“Yeah, the sandwich. The place hasn’t changed.”

“The sandwich is fine, but I ain’t so sure about the damn place.”

“What’s so different?”

Dally raises an eyebrow to match Ponyboy’s expression. “There aren’t no bums hanging around and hollerin’, for one.”

He huffs a little laugh and tosses the used knife in the sink. “I’ll put a record on, if you want. You like the Beatles yet?”

“Hell nah. Never. They’re still rank.”

Ponyboy snickers. “Fair enough. Bob Dylan?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

There’s some more shuffling and he eventually sticks on something that he doesn’t recognise, but it ain’t half bad, and it’s a lot better than complete silence.

“When _did_ you start smoking Kool’s?” he asks, when Pony flicks open the pack and holds it in his direction.

He grins. “Coach told me I had to quit if I wanted to stay on the track team, and Kool’s don’t smell half as bad. Guess it stuck.”

“You still do track, kid?”

“Sure. It’s a gas.”

“Tuff enough. What’s been goin’ down around this place anyway?”

“I’ll tell ya if you tell me where you’ve been. Deal?”

Dally lifts his eyebrows. “You’re makin’ a deal with ol' Winston?”

“Hey, well. Ol' Winston let me hug him earlier so I’m takin’ my chances while you’re feeling sentimental.”

“You always been this sassy?”

“Yeah, but I was little so I kept my mouth shut real good.” He grins a little from behind the curtain of red hair that’s slipped in front of his eyes, and blows out a little smoke.

Dallas flicks ash at him. “So now you’re all grown you’re fixin’ on a fight?”

“Naw, I just don’t reckon you came all this way to knife me. At least tell me how long you’re stayin’ so you don’t leave me hanging again.”

There’s a note of wistfulness to his voice that makes Dally’s insides squirm just a little. Tulsa has crossed his mind many, many times over the years, once it got to the point that it didn’t make him want to punch someone’s lights out anymore and it was just a dull ache in his memory.

“I don’t know, kid. I’ve got no plans but I’m stayin’ for now.”

Ponyboy bites his lip and casts a fleeting glance at him, his eyes darting to the window and back. “Tuff enough.”

“So what’s up with the big times?” he asks, in an effort to get him talking again. “You said Shepard was in the cooler?”

“Sure. He had it comin’, but it was messy.” Ponyboy stubs his cigarette out in the sink and tosses it towards the open window. It misses, and bounces back onto the counter. “The old lady got sent to rehab a month later, and Curly an’ Angela got put in homes.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah. Curly’s been back since he turned eighteen but Angela’s in New York, I think. They don’t talk much no more.”

“An’ Tim’s still locked up?”

“Sure. Curly says his sentence got reduced, though.”

“What about everyone else? What are your brothers up to?”

Ponyboy’s face crumples and Dally immediately regrets asking. His gut tightens in an inexplicable way.

“Pony?”

He takes a shaky breath. “Darry’s still workin’ two jobs,” he replies. “And Soda—”

Dally watches the way he clenches his jaw and looks down at his hands, which are twitching like he wants to throw something.

“Soda’s been in the ‘Nam four months, Steve longer. They’re alright, though.”

Dally blanches. “Christ. And—?”

“Two-Bit’s still here,” Ponyboy replies to his silent question. “Mrs Matthews passed away last year but he’s doing okay.”

“Glory.”

“Yeah.” He squints up at him. “So what’s been up with you?”

Dally pulls out another smoke before answering, still reeling from the news. He’s not sure how far Ponyboy’s gonna push it. The Ponyboy that exists in his memories wouldn’t have said anything once Dally told him to drop it the first time, but they’ve both changed. Dally’s still not sure how much.

“I’ve been in and around. Spent a year back up in New York, then a year in the cooler. Met a girl on the east coast but she wasn’t it.”

“Why’d you come back?”

Dally hesitates. “I dunno, kid. Guess I felt like dropping by.”


	2. Cattle

There are things to do in the afternoon he has remaining. Ponyboy won’t stop eyeing him, but he’s being kind of quiet as usual. Dal takes off with the car after Ponyboy tells him there’ll be dinner if he wants it. That, at least, hasn’t changed.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he steps out the house. His nerves are a little frayed and the cigarettes aren’t calming him down like they should, but his hands on the wheel calm him down.

“Hey, Buck!”

He screeches to a halt outside the old house and slams the horn three times in quick succession. Hell, he ain’t even sure Buck still lives here—but he’s rewarded by the distant sound of cursing and banging. The door slams its way open and a figure with a familiar cowboy hat and a shotgun steps up to the porch.

“Glory hallelujah, if you ain’t here smackin’ that horn like there ain’t no tomorrow for no goddamn good reason—” he stops, and squints.

“You—son of a _bitch,_ Winston?”

“Long time no see, huh?”

He lets Buck laugh and clap him on the back, and feels the corners of his own mouth lift a little. It’s been a while.

“Man, you comin’ in for a drink?”

“Sure, if you ain’t gonna try charge me. I’m a little short on cash; ain’t had a job in a while.”

Buck chuckles as he kicks open the screen door. “So that’s what this is all about, huh? You want your old gig back?”

“Well when you put it like that,” Dally gives him a grin, baring his teeth. “Makes it sound like I weren’t just visitin’ an old friend. You got a new rodeo partner?”

Buck reaches behind the bar in the living room, and spews a slew of cuss words at the mention of a rodeo partner. “Buddy boy, am I glad you’re back. Christ, _Ronnie,_ the lil’ pansy-ass—”

“He really that bad?” Dally snickers.

“Like you would not believe. Where you been all these years?”

“New York,” Dally replies, smoothly. “Say Buck, you still renting out those rooms?”

It’s a lot cleaner than he remembers, and it stinks a lot less as well. It looks like somebody’s repainted the walls, too, if the stains that used to be there are anything to go by.

“Huh?” Buck turns and slaps two beers on the counter, and Dally sits down gingerly. Hell, even the seats aren’t a bit sticky.

“I said, you still rentin’ out these rooms? I need some place to crash.”

“Shit, Dal, I’m a married man.”

Dallas promptly chokes on his beer. “ _What?_ ”

And okay, yeah, there is a simple silver wedding band on his finger that he’d overlooked previously but still—

He slaps Buck’s hand away from his back and forces himself to stop coughing violently. “What? You—what—how the hell did your yee-yee cowboy ass manage to get _hitched_?”

“Watch it, Winston.”

“Or what? _Glory_ hallelujah, I leave for a few years and this place goes to shit. Next, you’ll be tellin’ me the old lady popped out a couple kids as well.” 

“Kid, why d’you think we tied the knot?”

“Shit,” says Dallas, taking a long swig of beer. “Pity the baby, and the wife. Married? To _who?_ ”

“You remember Jessie Graham?”

“You _married_ that skag bitch—”

“Naw, I married her sister.”

Dally shudders. “Lord. Anythin’ else you wanna fess up to?”

“Ain’t much, man. Married life is dull as anythin’.” He sighs forlornly, and picks something out from between his teeth. “It ain’t worth it, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Quit actin’ like I was ever gonna get hitched in anyway. Man, this place is out of it. What do people do for kicks, these days? Now that you’re _married,_ and old enough to be my granddad?”

“Watch it.”

“How old are you anyway? Thirty?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Glory. How old’s the sprog?”

“Two?”

“You don’t sound too sure.” Dallas shudders again. “Can’t believe there’s a Buck Junior runnin’ around in this world. Shit, worse n’ that, half Merril, half _Graham._ Which one’s Jess’ sister—Nancy?”

“Thas’ the one.”

It ain’t too bad, just sitting there with Buck, listening to him bitch about his wife with a note of fondness in his drawl. He’s mellowed out a bit. He’s lanky as ever but he’s not so shifty-eyed, and his gap-toothed smile comes loosely. He’s also filled out a little around the middle, which Dallas makes a point of mentioning.

“Yeah, yeah, can it, kid.”

They lapse into silence while Buck digs another couple of beers out of the fridge. When he looks up again, Buck’s giving him the same odd look that had been on Ponyboy’s face earlier.

“Man, what?”

“Buddy,” he says, sliding the beer across the counter. “It’s jus’ that we all thought you was dead.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“S’like seein’ a ghost.”

“Yeah, well,” snaps Dallas. “I ain’t dead, savvy? Jus’ cos there was a shootin’ in the next town over don’t mean it was me.”

Buck shrugs. “A lot of folk thought you’d lost it, after the Cade kid went n’ died.”

Dallas clenches his jaw and contemplates knocking out a few more of his teeth to match. “Well, I’m back in this shithole for now, ain’t I? Glory, as if it’s anyone’s business what I do.”

“Sure.” Buck gives him a funny look. “Well, the missus is gonna be back soon so unless you wanna meet her and the kid—”

“Man, not today.”

Buck snorts, and claps him on the back again. “Figures. I’ll talk to the folks down at Slash J, and you’d better go find someplace else to crash.”

He leaves with the same jittery feeling that he left the Curtis house with. Truth be told, he doesn’t know why he came back. Misplaced longing, maybe. His split with Anna was amicable by any standards, but it did leave something behind that craved something as stupid as meaning.

It’s late when he gets back to the Curtis place, sans the car and a few hundred dollars richer. The folks at the DX are less inclined to buy stolen parts than they used to be, and he’s exhausted.

However, the house is still startlingly empty. Bob Dylan is warbling from Ponyboy’s room so he goes to shove the door open, before hesitating—he’s not sure he’s allowed to barge into rooms as he pleases anymore. So he knocks, instead.

“Darry?”

“Do I look like Darry to ya, kid?”

“Oh.” Ponyboy looks up from where he was hunched by the desk. It’s too low for him now, and he sits weird, with one knee bunched up awkwardly against his chest. “Wasn’t expectin’ you back so soon.”

“Kid, it’s almost seven.”

“I—for real? Christ.” He stands up and cracks what sounds like every joint in his back. Dally winces. “You stayin’ here tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll take the couch,” says Dally, waving a dismissive hand. “Buck got married, you heard about that?”

Ponyboy grins ruefully. “So I’ve heard. Is he gettin’ you your old job back?”

“He’d better.”

“So you really are stayin’, huh?”

“I—yeah.” Dally squints at Ponyboy, taking in the way his eyebrows are pinched like he can’t quite believe it. “If I was just swingin’ by I wouldn’t have taken the time talkin’ to you idiots.”

“Sure, sure.” But Ponyboy’s got a bit of a grin on his face and a spring in his step when he wanders into the kitchen and takes out the pasta.

***

It ain’t what he was expecting, that’s for sure. Two-Bit’s got a beard, for a start, to match his sideburns. And Darry Curtis honest to god cried when he saw him. And if that wasn’t enough of a fucking gut-punch, Two-Bit had yelled and stormed out after seeing him and, worse, Dally can’t even find it in himself to blame him.

“He didn’t mean half of it. Two-Bit,” says Ponyboy, looking up from where he’s reading on the armchair, long legs draped over the side. Dally stops messing with that black-handled switchblade and frowns.

“He did. And I don’t care, kid.”

It’s a lie, and they both know it. He’s thinking about the ugly word spilling from Two-Bit’s mouth and Dally’s not normally one to care about what people think of him, but it’s different when it’s Two-Bit, when Two-Bit’s normally too good-natured to say shit about anyone in his gang. Of course, Dally doesn’t know what normal means for them anymore. Maybe Two-Bit’s mom’s death fucked him over. Whatever.

But the anger in his tone won’t leave his mind. The _we thought we lost you, just like Johnny._ Two-Bit flipping out, and for once, Dally felt shame instead of just fucking punching him like he would’ve done before. _We thought we lost you, just like Johnny,_ and for the first time, Dal realises that maybe his decision to leave impacted more than just him alone. He frowns deeper, and flips the switchblade back out. In, out. It’s not his, it’s Two-Bit’s, and it’s such a tuff blade that Dal’s managed to hold onto it since the night of the rumble.

Ugly words like _coward,_ and _supposed to be a gang._ And accepting it blank-faced, even though Two-Bit was probably looking for a fight. A clenched jaw, anger in bright eyes, lines around a mouth that should be smiling. Everyone looks older, and sadder, and Dally still hasn’t completely processed that Steve and Soda stand a reasonable chance of dying. It’s all wrong. And he can’t find it in himself to ignore it, like he’s used to doing when there’s nothing else he can do.

“Dal?”

He glances up.

“You want a blanket or something? I’m gonna head to bed.”

Dallas shrugs. “Whatever.”

Ponyboy brings him a blanket and pillow anyway, like Dally knows he will, and Dally pretends he doesn’t care, like he always does.

“Ponyboy?”

“Yeah?” he hesitates by the doorway and turns around. Again, that shrewd look, like he’s wondering why the hell he came back, wondering where he’s been, when he’ll leave again.

“I’m serious. I’m fixing on stickin’ around.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hell, what d’you want? An apology?”

“Are you offering?”

He hesitates. “I give what’s owed.”

“Do you regret leaving?”

Another pause. It’s something he’s thought about hundreds of times—what if he’d stayed? But then again— “No.”

Ponyboy shifts awkwardly on his feet.

“But that don’t mean I ain’t glad to be back.”

***

He dreams of an old love that night, tangled dreams of a church, of a kid in hospital and a woman who he never let in completely, a frustrating half-love and the lifelong longing for something unknown. Tulsa may not have it, but it’s the closest he’s ever come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Americans are stereotyped as the dumb ones who don't know geography but ngl I deadass only just realised that Tulsa is an actual place and not, like, somewhere Hinton made up, so there's that. 
> 
> as usual, kudos and comments always appreciated, and I have got tumblr if you wanna talk @jvo_taiski but as usual, it comes with the disclaimer that it's empty. 
> 
> enjoy, and hopefully I get around to the next chapter soonish
> 
> Jx


End file.
